


Camellia

by ABitNotGood (EggsyUnwin)



Category: Trainspotting (1996)
Genre: Flower meanings, M/M, they said there couldn't be a trainspotting meet cute, they were probably right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9704687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EggsyUnwin/pseuds/ABitNotGood
Summary: Mark never believed when his ma told him the old ways were the best, but there’s something about the act of giving flowers that makes the phrase ring true.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lordofthedreadfort](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordofthedreadfort/gifts).



MEETING IN THE MIDDLE

 

 

There are certain places where people expect to find certain things. Down hidden cobbled streets couples expect to find candlelit restaurants; near railway stations old men expect to find run down pubs; on the edges of industrial areas students expect to find clubs; following this logic, there are certain places people would expect to find a tattoo parlour. That place would be pushed between a Chinese takeout and a video store, not proudly displaced, with its own porch and sash windows, between a hipster coffee shop - probably known as a start-up to its stuck-up owners - and a – there’s no other word for it - _quaint_  florist. 

Mark has sunk to some low levels in his life, but never quite this. He’s fairly sure he's never thought the word quaint before in his life and isn't pleased that he's had to sink to this level now.

He considers calling Mr Estate Agent and telling him that the deal's off, stuff the contract, and this wasn’t on the fucking website. It’s hard to complain though about the environs being too good. When Mr Estate Agent said he'd have no trouble from the neighbours, Mark thought that meant they would mutually ignore each other and make enough noise of their own not to complain about any he might make. That was the ‘no trouble’ he was used to from this city. Not this level of attempted sophistication and aesthetic middleclass fantasy. A bearded man and a woman in a straw hat and wellies walked past arm in arm giggling and passed into the coffee shop. They were probably salivating over the prospect of a skinny non-fat soy latte and one day getting enough to invest bit coins in their own start up. For the second time in as many minutes, Mark wants to wash his thoughts out. This never used to happen this much when he controlled the substances going in there.

It's clear now that he's been gone too long. The great wave of gentrification has truly hit Edinburgh. Well, at least half of this street. 

His phone dings obnoxiously loudly in his pocket and a few people on the street reach for their own at the same time. He needs to remember to put that thing on silent more often. 

It's Mr Estate Agent. Easy to text whilst driving without fear when you know you’re making enough commission to cover most people’s salaries three times over.  

NEARLY THERE WITH KEYS. WILL BE 15. 

Well fuck that. No Edinburgh estate agent has ever actually been fifteen minutes late when they say they'll be fifteen minutes. And he's not waiting outside to be ogled by the hipster elite for half an hour. 

The cafe isn't too full. It's a bright, quiet-ish place and it might be good to have neighbours who don't hate him from the offset. Maybe they even have coffee that doesn't taste like piss. It’s worth a try but he sets his expectations appropriately low. The bell rings as he goes in and a forced smile meets him from behind the counter. 

—How kin I help ye? Her name tag says Kelly. Her eyes are unfocused in a familiar way which sets him back a decade and the thick slab of makeup barely covers the bags under her eyes. This is the Edinburgh he's used to. 

—Coffee. Nae that tea crap.

—Grande? She accompanies the word with a badly executed Italian accent, obviously rote learnt to add a _je ne sais quoi_ to the place. Likely it just results in making everyone feel unwelcome and a little uncomfortable. That’s certainly how he’s left feeling.  

—Jist a normal one.

—Medium ye mean. Late or cappuccino?

—Jist coffee. Wi milk.

—Soy, almond, full, skimmed or semi?

—Jist regular milk.

—An spice?

—Naw.

—Food?

—Jist coffee.

—Take out?

—Naw, er - in.

She glares at him like he's purposefully making this hard for both of them. She pushes something on the iPad pretending to be a cash register. 

—Name?

—Uh. Now she's glaring like he’s taking the piss and he wonders if maybe he's forgotten his name. —Mark. 

She rolls her eyes but writes it on the cup in bright red sharpie. Even she can’t misspell that. 

—Medium cappuccino with semi, no spice, no sauce, no food. She shouts over her shoulder to the rat haired man behind her who nods without turning away from the line of steaming machines. 

She tells him the price and asks if he wants to pay with his phone or his card. He hands over cash and she eyes it with disapproval before taking it tentatively, avoiding touching his hand as if he’s contagious. 

The bell tinkles behind him indicating another punter. He considers warning the poor sod about the ridiculous ordering process and to get out while he can. There’s a sadistic urge to watch someone else suffer the barista's disapproval though so he holds his tongue. He doesn’t turn around – if he saw the bloke he’d probably break, or maybe start laughing.

—Medium wi semi an naw spice, take away.

Kelly smiles brightly at this man, and writes him without asking. Mark catches sight of a smudged S but nothing more. And that’s it.

—Thanks, Kels.

There’s something about the voice that makes Mark want to punch the other guy in his annoyingly angular face. Instead, he settles for getting out his phone and starring resolutely down, checking to see if there’s an update on the keys. The wait for the drinks is awkward, like the moment in the club when you realise you’re less sober than you thought – there’s a sudden flash that you can’t remember how to place your arms, or where to look. There are certain people who can approach any social situation and slide into it without friction or resistance. S is one of these lucky buggers and it reminds Mark of his own awkwardness tenfold. Mark moves his weight to his left foot, then back to his right. Out the corner of his eye, he can see S standing casually as if social interactions are the easiest thing in the world.

Somehow, S gets his drink first and saunters out of the shop raising one eyebrow at Mark as the only indication that he even noticed him. Now he’s confined to waiting alone and settling at a table.

Mr Estate Agent ambles in 35 minutes after his text and stays for all of two minutes before heading off again in his snooty Prius. 

He shouts bye to the barista more to piss her off than to forge any sort of neighbourly bond. His new shop – the monetary product of years of paper pushing and balancing accounts – is derelict and covered in a fine layer of dust, but the water and mains are all in working order.  

— Nivir seen ye around before.

Mark spins around to see the tall man from the coffee shop leaning against the open door frame, outlined by the morning sun. —Are ye from here?

—Ah once wis. He holds out his hand. The other man rejects it with crossed arms and a tight smirk. He angles himself backwards, reinforcing the rejection, and Mark sees something crushed between his crossed arms.

—Haud oan. Mark steps forward —Ah’m Renton. 

The man sighs, overly exaggerated, like a pantomime act, as if he’s been worn down by weeks of persuasion and whatever he does next can’t be blamed on him. He opens his arms to reveal a shockingly perfect flower. Instead of a name, he offers the single bright pink flower that looks like a dyed pink cotton puff and thrusts it at Mark. —This is fir ye then.

—Whit is it?

—A camellia. Ah work next door, S adds, as explanation. 

—Alright, S.

—Whit?

—Whit's the S stand fir anyway? For a minute Mark thinks he's gonna get an answer. 

—S'none ay yer business yet, is it? But S is smiling widely.

Before Mark can think of anything witty to say the man's gone and the word _yet_ lingers in the air. He’s not quite sure what it was that makes the moment stick in his mind, but the image of the man smirking in the doorway is like a parasite, carving out his brains to make a home in a corner of his mind and slowly spreading.

The flower goes in water, but is hidden away on top of the toilet. The downside of this is Mark has to look at it every time he goes for a piss. If anyone ever asks, he never goggled its meaning, but also it was such a ubiquitous gesture that he feels he should be let off for his curiosity. Giving flowers is some old time romantic bullshit. Mark never believed when his ma told him the old ways were the best, but there’s something about the act of giving flowers that makes the phrase ring true.

Mr Estate Agent waxed lyrical about the south facing windows but he didn’t mention the way the sun would catch his eye every time he turned to face the front door, whispering that someone might be standing just out of view. The sun shines through and illuminates every dust moat transforming it into liquid gold for a second even as he cleans and sets up shop. Everything in the shop feels sharpened by the sunlight, leaving him on edge in a way he hasn’t felt in years. He left that behind. Ten years clean. The sun catches the rough edges though and throws his certainty back at him; taunting him with the man who briefly stood in the door, smirking like he knew every crime Mark had ever commit; taunting him with the memory of how good it could feel; taunting him with how little anything else mattered, showing him how every second drags and cuts itself into existence. It’s a spiteful reminder of everything corporeal and transient that he can’t have. The beauty of it – the masochism – well. It’s the closest he’s got to a high in years.

He sets up the shop in a zombie mode of silence over the next week – avoiding the coffee shop and the florist – acting as if neighbours don’t exist. It’s easy enough, he’s done it before, for years, with monumental success. He can count on one hand the number of people who noticed when he moved back to Scotland. The days are spent in silent work, and the nights are wasted getting back into the ways of the city, remembering the feel of it and the throbbing pulse. On Monday he calls two friends who’re in the neighbourhood to come and help – one of them is going to work with him here so might as well learn the lay of the land now.

By now, he should be used to seeing faces from the past. But it’s like grinning ghosts confronting him everywhere he goes, in the corner shop, the local, or stepping off the train. It’s the slam of breaks in his mind as he remembers nights he wanted to forget, or thoughts he promised he would never stop remembering.

—It’s barry to see ye, Spud.

—Aye, ah missed ye.

The part that nearly breaks him is the honesty in both their voices. For a moment, he wonders which of them missed the other most. He hasn’t thought of Spud for more than a few minutes since he left but now he’s next to him that feels like a cruel neglect. All the missing he’s held off rushes back in an instant. He needs to stay cool. Nonplussed. Even with Spud’s stupid grin.

When he considered owning his own business, his list of dream workers never included Daniel Murphy. But previously ex-pat runaways can’t be choosers, or so the saying should go. The time passes quickly, and they knock the place closer to an operational state soon enough. Spud is enthusiastic about the work and about Mark himself which is more than can be said for most people, even his so-called friends. Also, there’s something Mark would likely never admit, but in Spud’s rare moments of sobriety he can be cuttingly observant, and more morally upright than the grandest vicar in the land. Having him working with him – well: it’s far better than nothing, and worse than a professional stranger for sure.

—Where d’ye want this then? Spud asks, holding up a large planter. Mark’s sure he’s never seen it in here before.

—Property ay the old proprietors, ah’d guess.

—Ah kin bin it, if ye want?

Mark’s about to nod when he reconsiders. He shrugs and points in the direction of the window, telling him to put it down over there in the main window where it can be seen from the street. Where the sun can hit it.  Maybe the place could do with some aesthetic touches after all.

 —Ah think it’s time ah gae something to brighten up the place.

—More homely, likesay?

—Aye.

—Whit’ve you got in mind? Spud asks.

Mark brushes the dust off his hands and stands up with a grin —Ah’ve nae introduced masel tae the neighbours yet. Ah think ah’ll get some flowers.


End file.
